A Love Evergreen
by Snowfleet
Summary: When the Phantom kidnaps Christine in one last effort to secret her away to his dark domain to make her his bride, the entire opera house is in uproar to have his head. Meg Giry, in an effort to save her friend, finds herself at the Phantom's mercy.
1. Prologue: Track Down This Murderer

**A Love Evergreen**

**a continuation of **

_**Phantom of the Opera**_

**Prologue  
**

_**Track Down this Murderer**_

Meg watched, unbelieving, as Christine disappeared in the arms of the Phantom beneath the trapdoor onstage. Screams assaulted the air as fires lit the rows of seats. Chaos abounded and Meg was suddenly cast in the middle of it all. As the paranoia prevailed, Meg desperately sought her mother. Madam Giry made haste in approaching her daughter, the fright written clearly in the wise lines of her face. Madam Giry's words were clear to her daughter. Meg was to gather the chorus girls and seek refuge outside the theater.

"No, Mama!" Meg had pleaded. "I will go with you."

"But you must, Meg!" Madam Giry commanded without room for argument.

It was at that moment the Viscount Raoul de Chagny, Christine's beloved and affianced, appeared at Madam Giry's side. Meg knew it was futile trying to reason with her mother. Her arms flew back to try to keep the growing mob at bay as she watched Madam Giry lead Raoul deeper into the throng of burgeoning madness. Meg refused to kowtow to her mother's orders.

It was such a strange feeling to have one's entire world ripped asunder by the mad machinations of a delirious man. Meg sent a pleading prayer heavenward for the safe return of Christine, and she bid good tidings to the rest of the opera house as she disengaged herself from the crowd. The fires were beginning to swarm higher, leaving little in their wake. The stench of the smoke infiltrated Meg's nostrils. She quickly cupped a hand over her mouth to waylay the stinging sensation in her throat. Meg had to flee—and fast.

. . .

The mirror stood eerily in the heart of the room, and all that was reflected was Meg's wan, disheveled semblance. Meg pulled the lever and a _whoosh_ of warm, slow air greeted her. Meg did not know what awaited her in the dark, dank despair below the opera house, but her courage bristled. Meg was compelled to act, and she could not let Christine fall victim to the Phantom's unrequited love—nay, obsession. Although it would not afford little light, Meg picked up the lone candle that lit the vanity and proceeded forward. She did not glance back as the mirror descended, encasing her in a soft darkness.

Heart piercing her ribcage, Meg felt as if a little bird had fluttered and refused to leave its nest. The corridor was narrow and slight. Meg sighed, steeled herself, and said one last prayer.

_Please, Christine, be safe, _she thought to herself before she was ultimately swallowed by the thick shank of gloom.

Quiet stretched across the tunnel walls as Meg made her way further into the pitch-black of the Phantom's territory. There was a faint stench of death, though Meg was unsure if it was truly death or her overactive imagination. As much as the thought frightened her, Meg refused to allow herself to be deterred. The candle afforded little light so she was doubly careful where she stepped. Much of the ground was not level, parts pocked with small holes. Meg wondered briefly if rats burrowed, and, if not, what animal could that would dwell so far from sunlight.

Soon Meg noticed something peculiar. The walls seemed narrower, tight and claustrophobic. Her shoulders grazed the rough walls which forced her to turn her body slightly sideways to maneuver between them. With a little ire and frustration, eventually Meg made it to the end of the slight corridor. Meg thought herself dunderheaded, but she was quite aware of the dangers that lay ahead. It was only sheer hopefulness that quelled her task. Her clever mind was racing with countless possibilities. She paused briefly to refocus her attention, deciding it would be easier to cross that metaphorical bridge if and when she reached it.

It was not long before Meg found herself at a dead end. All that lay before her was a rough, blackened wall. She held the candle up to examine it more closely. It was a curious sight with stone and brick in varying sizes. Her heart pounded in frustration as she slapped at the stones. Meg stood back and kicked at the ground. She had wasted her time coming this way. Horrible images of Christine swam in her head, and she felt the harsh sting of tears threaten her eyes.

"No!" she screamed. "I will not give up, Christine. I am coming for you. I will _not_ give up!"

Meg's initial cursory inspection left her a bit dazed. Her brows knitted together as she glimpsed to her right a strangely narrow slip of space. If she sucked in her stomach, she was sure it would be just enough berth to navigate. So she did just that. Meg inhaled and tucked her stomach, holding it taut. She squeezed through and was surprised to learn that after the first few feet it stretched open enough to allow her a much more comfortable space to breathe, so she relaxed and scurried on hastily. Every so often there was a jagged protrusion from the wall that would snag her shirt. Although Meg had spent her life training and exercising for her ballet each day, nothing quite prepared her for the stamina to keep up the pace she was extending herself. Lungs burning and calves aching, Meg sojourned onward.

. . .

At last Meg reached a point in her path where the tunnel expanded to a normal size again. She could appreciate the complexity of subterranean gallery, but Meg could not imagine trekking through the maze every day. How in Hades could the Phantom traverse this den as he did? The man was a genius, indeed!

Meg's ears prickled as she perceived a peculiar sound. She stilled and listened a bit more intently. A few seconds passed before she realized that she was in front of the mob that Madam Giry was leading. Meg was so sure that she would be the last one to arrive as her mother knew more of the Phantom and his trickery than anyone. She grinned dismally as she ascertained the Phantom must have foreseen this outcome. So he had placed a few obstacles to thwart any attempt to access the depths of his underground haven. He could escape with Christine without the need to worry there would be any chance of interference. His intelligence astounded Meg. It made her veins freeze with terror. Truly she could not fathom what to expect once she made it to the heart of his home. However, Meg wanted to find him before anyone else. Meg had read such stories where men acted like caged animals. They were known to do heinous acts, ultimately suffocating the very victim they objectified. Perhaps Meg could reason with him to do the right thing.

As Meg ambled on she could hear the meddlesome mob growing nearer. It would not be long before they caught up to her. The practical recess of her mind agreed that joining the crowd would be best. But what would be the best thing for Christine? Could Meg even bargain with a madman? Perhaps being a woman, Christine's cherished friend no less, would attach itself to his heart.

Meg snorted. _Yes, that would work out most splendidly._

. . .

Much to her dislike, Meg was startled as torchlights bounced off the walls. The mob was upon her. The uniformed policemen who led the way barely took notice of her, so Meg eased herself ahead of them. She was the first to cross the lake. Meg had heard the legend of the lake as a child, and each year there was a retelling of the eerie tale that each new ballerina would learn. It was certainly not a charming sight, but it was hardly the creepy spectacle she had so many times described. Yet she could not bespeak the fact the Phantom may well have killed someone and let the corpse rot in the putrid, murky water.

Meg caught vows of revenge from the mob, a host of stagehands and lawmen who had been at the Phantom's mercy for many years. She surmised they, too, had suffered enough over the years to merit an act of justice. Meg did not like the declarations she heard, especially the men who vowed to sever the Phantom's head. Other men admonished the Phantom's cowardice. Meg cared less about the Phantom. Her only intent to find Christine, Meg wished for her friend's safety.

Just as she rounded the bend, Meg gasped at the beauty before her. A hundred candles lit the room. It was a palace fashioned of a large cavern. Awed by the splendor that glittered in rich ruby and gilded golden shades, Meg lost herself to the comeliness of the room. The grand organ drew Meg's attention. Its magnificence was magnified in the enchantment of its surroundings. It was as though Meg had come upon a mirage in the darkness, but the tragic events of the night found her anywhere but a dream. The organ seemed to have a life of its own as if it dared anyone uninvited to enter. Chills crept along Meg's spine as she and the mob reached the lake shore. So this was the Phantom's home, the place where all of his turmoil came to life in the operas that he penned.

Turning in a wide, sweeping circle, Meg was accosted by a brief silence. The intimacy of the air made her shiver with discomfiture. Men fell into every corner of the room, turning furniture over, touching torches to some of the Phantom's most treasured possessions. As precious notes on parchment were burned, Meg distanced herself from the upheaval. Curiously she made her way to the organ, the one piece no one else seemed to notice. Her fingers grazed over the cold keys. The man was a monster, but could a monster truly engage such beautiful music? Even Meg could not deny the existence of passion—sometimes fierce, often gentle—in the music the Phantom shared in the operas he composed.

In a moment of weakness, Meg was so overcome with grief that Christine nor the Phantom were here that she tore across the room. Her eyes were wild as she searched for some clue, some morsel of information that would lead her to Christine. Strangely, now that she thought about it, her mother was nowhere to be found. Neither was Raoul, and she swore Madam Giry had led the foray of the mob into the hellish depths. Somehow it mattered little to her.

Meg watched as the men continued to aimlessly destroy. If they could not extinguish the Phantom, then they would decimate his home. They were performing marvelously. Meg felt sick as any clue could have been overlooked by their inane carelessness. She wanted to rebuff their actions, but she knew doing so would be ineffective. Leaving the men to their actions, Meg caught sight of something that stilled her nerve. It excited and frightened her at once. Laying serenely on pieces of broken mirror fragments and crumpled music sheets was the Phantom's mask. Meg was drawn to it. She was fearful to touch it at first, but courage found its way to her fingers and she gingerly ran her index finger down the cheek. A jolt of realization shocked her when the warmth that emanated from the mask marred her flesh. She picked it up, marveling at its smooth finish. She had just missed him. More grievously, she had missed Christine! Tears prickled her eyes, but Meg refused to let them fall.

. . .

The mob party had succeeded in wrecking the Phantom's home, and Meg ironically felt ashamed that she had did little to preserve its prettiness. There were more pressing matters. A young gentleman who was dressed in a rich navy blue uniform caught sight of Meg, at first startled to see a young lady down there. He had not witnessed her descending with them, but then again the mob was a considerable size. Several men had already begun to make their way back from whence they had come, which made it easy to spot the young blonde woman.

"Miss," started the man. "You must not linger here. It is not safe for you to remain. You must return to the surface at once."

Meg turned around. She was stricken and quickly tucked the mask in the back of her trousers. For some reason she wished to hold onto the mask for safekeeping.

"Are you speaking to me?" Meg questioned a tad lamely. "I am sorry, but I could not idly sit by and let my dear friend be taken." Her voice turned defensively. "I have every right to be down here as you, and as you can very well see the Phantom and Christine are long gone. Forgive me, my courage did not flee as you would expect it of a lady," she seethed.

The young officer had the humbleness to look abashed. "I am sorry, miss, but I only thought to protect you."

"I am not the one who needs any protection! Do I look as if I do? Christine is the victim here, and you all have little in the way of finding her. All you have managed is to throw your masculinity around and set destruction upon the place. Look around you, sir!"

Meg would not be apprehended in the role of a damsel in distress; especially not by the likes of someone who was not doing his proper duty to serve and protect.

"Ah, well, please forgive me, but I will be heading back now so it would in your best interest not to tarry. Again, I must stress that is is not safe," the officer assumed some authority, though he was leery of the girl before him.

Meg let out a derisive laugh, which was unlike her when she was usually docile and well-mannered. "Oh, sir, rest assured that I will return of my own accord once I find my friend."

Before the man turned away he thought better to ask her name. "If you must be a silly girl, may I at least know your name less some poor, grieving sod comes calling should something arise?"

Meg thought for a moment, then shrugged. It mattered not if someone knew her name, and if something _did_ happen there would at least be closure for her dear mother.

"Meg Giry."

Without another word she whisked away, once more in search for clues. Meg knew she could not waste much more time down here when there was little else left to uncover. Obviously the Phantom had escaped with Christine in his grasp. Meg was oblivious as the mob thinned out more as men continued to leave. The young officer returned with them. Soon Meg was left alone with only the aftermath of the mob to keep her company.

"Damn you!" Meg cursed. And she meant it with all her heart.


	2. Chapter 1: Magical Lasso

**A Love Evergreen**

**a continuation of **

_**Phantom of the Opera**_

**Chapter One**

_**Magical Lasso**_

__Amid the destruction there was still a stately elegance to the room. With so many things to uncover, Meg fell into despair. She felt her stupidity had escalated two-fold in coming down to the depths of the Phantom's lair. Noble, indeed, but foolish nonetheless.

Meg retreated to a corner of the room that she had not yet visited. As she approached she saw her face in the hundreds of fragments. Her eyes were desolate and constant. Meg touched a hesitant finger to the broken shards. Moments ago they had held the remnants of a broken Phantom. Now the shattered mirrors held the reflection of a frightened, but determined, young woman. The light barely reflected in the space.

The only thing to keep Meg company presently was the ghostly solitude, which came in soft waves of awe as she willed herself to calm down. A quiet serenity fell over the cavernous area. Meg noted how it could afford the Phantom's escape from the world above the opera house. Her fingers brushed over the Phantom possessions, willing them to jump out at her as a clue. Meg found herself drawn to the perimeter. Remembering the corridor she had to squeeze through earlier, she made quick work of feeling along the chamber wall.

Meg's eye lit upon the rich, burgundy brocade. It was angled into the far corner of the room, just right of the small partition where she was uncovered the Phantom's mask. Her curiosity piqued, Meg tentatively pulled the curtain back, and what lay before her was an endless stretch of blackness that swallowed the light shining behind her. She gasped with delight. Unease crept stiffly up her spine as she peered once more to the lake. Freedom reached to her from the opposite shore. Fear was proffered from the black corridor. Freedom would bequeath grief and instability to Meg's fragile state of regret. Oh, but from fear there was hope! Fear would be her guide, but hope would hold her hand and see her through until the end—of that Meg was certain.

Meg spun on her booted heel and retrieved the nearest torchlight. Dawdling no further, courage forced her past the brocade and into yet another tunnel. Meg knew she would have to keep her wits about her. The Phantom's labyrinth was a cruel maze if one did not keep a sharp mind. The tales had not been lost to Meg as she grew up in the opera house. The stories had instilled great respect for the Phantom's home many floors beneath her prancing feet.

Meg tucked the curtain back into place to conceal the passageway. She would not chance another assault that would thwart any attempt of Christine's rescue. A mob would be a great threat to the Phantom, but Meg would only be a source of reasoning, or so she gravely hoped. All at once she was cast in pitch-darkness. The torchlight offered very little consistency with its meager flame. Meg was evermore vigilant with each step she took deeper into the Phantom's den. The thought that no one from her world, save Christine, had entered these depths excited the adventurer in Meg. Meg reasoned the Phantom's lakefront home was barely the cusp of his riches. This was the darker part of his territory, the part where the mad man escaped to do his evil deeds. Meg shivered thoroughly.

Meg was met with two options: left or right. Intuitively Meg headed right. This divergence in the tunnel did not go on for as long as the first one, and soon Meg came upon three tunnels. Meg fled through the middle one. Though she was making excellent progress in her haste, she just hoped she was making the correct choices. The minutes _tick, tick, ticked_ by as her chase gave way to newly formed thoughts of beguiling hatred.

. . .

Just who was this man who thought he was so absolute that he could take hundreds of lives into his hands? What merit had he who thought he could force a woman's heart to yearn for his dastardly charm? Meg fumed as she bolted deeper still down the tunnel. This cat-and-mouse game was getting tiresome. Meg blew out a testy little breath.

Rounding a rather rigid turn, Meg abruptly slowed her pace. She was caught unawares as a soft light reached her eyes. Swiftly she drew back as a wave of fear hit her forcefully in the gut. Nausea reached the back of her throat, but Meg pushed it down. Someone was near. Time was critical.

_Think, Meg, think!_ she screamed to herself.

Meg paused just long enough to gaze into her own torchlight before she quietly placed it on the ground. For good measure she stomped it into the sandy earth with her boot heel. And there went her precious light.

Meg inched a little further around the corner, and to her utter horror the light was gone. Now she truly was in ultimate darkness. Trepidation struck out at the small bird in her chest. Her courage decided to flee at that moment. She tarried just as long as she could stand it. The Phantom was just paces ahead of her, and if not for her dancer's grace, she could surely give herself away.

. . .

A steady hand against the tunnel wall guided Meg. When she bumped into the solid mass in front of her, she stepped back and then ran her hands along whatever she had hit. As her fingers frantically wove across the jagged texture, instant alarm rang in her head. Meg groaned as she discovered it was a dead-end.

She slapped against the stony surface, making sure to give it a cursory kick. She had no light with which to explore, and she felt stupidly blind. Just as she was about to turn away, something caught at her neck.

A slow scream pierced her throat, but did not quite chance an escape. Meg struggled against the rough confinement, and her vision swam against the blackness. The last thing she saw was the burning gold eyes of an enraged Ghost.

"Silly fool," she heard before her ears popped.

So death would come to greet her this night.

. . .

It hit his nares subtly, an intoxicating aroma of sunshine and lilacs. Warmth flooded his stomach as hope flew on wings of despair. The Ghost choked on a sob, convulsing violently as the small creature in his arms softly moaned. It was tiny and all too feminine, a sound of remorse and defeat. She had flown to her senses!

"Christine! You have returned to me," he croaked in his beautiful, broken voice.

His hold on Meg loosened, and she slid to the floor. Her throat was on fire, and her legs had grown weak with the weight of death taxing her just moments before. She forced back a wave of hacking coughs, frozen in her poor fortune at the Phantom's dire whims. His mind was obviously tortured beyond comprehensible means, and far be it from Meg to try to rouse his reality. Christine was her only reason for tempting the devil's fate. How wrong she had been about that!

"Oh, beautiful, sweet, Christine—I prayed!"

Meg quietly slid closer to the wall. It provided no protection, only comfort and support when she had no other. Her heart was flying from her chest, her mind racing with dead-end possibilities. How should she play this? The man was delirious.

Gloom settled around them, coaxing their utmost fears in the balance of falseness. The Phantom had grown unusually somber, which made Meg uneasy. Her spine tingled with uncertainty. Meg jumped when she felt a warm graze across her cheek. The air hitched in her breast.

"I was sure that you were gone from me forever, my Christine," he seduced her.

His hand moved to her chin, forcing her face upward. Meg was sure that he had no special vision. He was as blind as she. Her breath stilled again.

Meg was only extending the inevitable as she intently listened to his words. Somewhere courage crept back into her blood, and she dashed all the barmy _what-ifs _from her mind. She must act instead of react; that was her only chance at survival. And, well, if there was no reasoning with a ghost, then she would at least know she had tried before she was left to rot beneath her marvelous home.

"Monsieur, I am not Christine." Meg's voice was all but a whisper.

That voice, though delicate as it was—it was not Christine. The Phantom jerked her head, though not strongly. Light, if only they were afforded light.

"I see," was the Ghost's reply.

Meg was scooped up and found herself flipped upside-down as if he meant to carry her as a sack of potatoes. A yelp of alarm rose to her lips.

. . .

Although Meg's legs were held captive, her hands were left free. She beat small fists of fury on his back, squirming and biting harsh threats toward him. Blood began to rush to head, and her exertions quickly tired her. Meg believed it quite audacious that this phantom, this ghost, this harbinger of death would ignore her futile attempts at release. Brow furrowing, she went limp in his hold. The Ghost was no fool , however, and he continued to absorb deeper into the underground nighttime. He wondered for a time if she had simply passed out from her conniption fit.

What the Phantom did not perceive was the duplicitous arousal that marked Meg's usually endearing personality. She was, of course, the only daughter to the Madam Giry, and while mother and daughter quite opposites in temperament, their stubbornness was assuredly shared. Dancing for most of her life, Meg was an athletic fawn, and her perseverance was unrivaled.

Meg twisted suddenly, hauling herself up just briefly so that she turned the Phantom's grip awkward. He let out a rough grunt, and when he tried to reassert his dominance, she took the opportunity to fling herself from his shoulder. Meg landed on her back and rolled to her side as the air was driven from her lungs. She was on her feet a moment later, scuttling from the Phantom's reach.

_Run now, breathe later_ was her inner mantra.

Her spirit was broken seconds later when she stumbled over a protrusion from the wall. Meg gritted her teeth as an explosion of pain enveloped her knee. She was used to injuries; it came with the territory of dance, but nothing had prepared her for the nerve-binding sensation she felt. Her hand went immediately to the area, and she could feel the wetness trickling through her breeches. The sticky warmth heeded her need to escape, and anguish shot through her soul. Her lips trembled as tears brimmed on her lash tips. Meg would not allow herself to weep as that would owe her defeat.

. . .

The wench had enough guts to fill heaps upon heaps of buckets, the Phantom would give her that, but she tried what little patience he had retained. It had been Christine's loving plea that had sent a measure of humanity into his soul. He had wielded it doubtfully as he let his lovely young angel escape with her betrothed. The Phantom did not wish to be seen as a monster borne of Hell.

A sneer caught his face as he started after Meg. She would not get far! His footsteps were sure and his stride was long. The Phantom did not chase; he stalked his prey like a mighty lion on the plains. Just as he rounded the bend in the corridor he stopped short as he heard the faint whimpering. Had she feigned bravery only to fall into a pit of self-deprecating pity? The Phantom would not stand for it.

His dark looming form was over Meg instantly. He grabbed hold of her arm and shoved her to her feet. Meg screamed in agony as weight was forced on her knee, and she crumpled once more to the filthy ground.

"I have not hurt her, slattern. Now stand or I will break both your legs!" he bellowed.

Meg cradled her knee and did manage to hoist herself up just a bit, but it was useless to do his bidding. She worried her bottom lip, yet it was unwise to unleash her anger.

"Monsieur, I am afraid I cannot do that. My knee is badly injured." Meg's words were stagnant, even to her own ears.

"You try my patience, girl. _Now get up!"_

Meg's eyes widened and then narrowed. Another cry of pain elicited when he roughly pulled her up. He raised her in his arms, and Meg bit hard on her knuckle to keep the tears back.

"I grow tired of your games, and you will rue the day you ever came to stare upon the face of a ghost," he vowed icily.

Meg shivered in spite of herself, but she said nothing.


End file.
